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Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

The Kingdom of Mercia, England, 756 AD

His horse's muscles flexed and bunched beneath him. Nausea rose in his throat at the stench of human blood. Blaise mustered his resolve and with smooth expertise raised the oval shield. He blocked an endless hail of arrows while he swung the long silver blade to and fro cutting down Saxons. His Father sent him to the border village to stop the bloodshed. How did he get caught up in the furry and lead the charge against Mercia? Death was all around him. "God's teeth, get me out of this alive," he mumbled beneath his breath.

His eardrums rung with the staggering high-pitched squeal of his horse. He glanced down at the black spear which impaled the steed's chest. He threw down his long sword, then tucked his legs in and fell as he had been trained. He hit the ground, tumbled forward, and stood. His heart plummeted as he gazed upon the roan quivering in a death spasm. Blaise's chest and belly clenched with a heavy sadness, but he didn't have time to mourn the noble beast's passing. He grabbed his sword off the ground, pivoted and swung at a blur of a man. A crimson puddle soaked the Saxon's tunic as he fell.

Blaise rushed forward with sword raised. He met another Saxon. Swords clashed. Sparks flew. Blaise sidestepped the foe's swing and moved in with a clean stab through the chest. He withdrew his blade as the body fell. Fevered with blood lust he swung his sword with a mad furry until an arrow struck him.

He moaned and stumbled back from the impact. A ruthless pain sliced through his chest. His upper body was on fire. The pain tore his breath into jagged gasps. He glanced at the shaft that pierced his chest and grasped the end. He pulled. It broke in his hand. The point and half the arrow shaft were lodged in his chest.

The heavy acidic odor of blood clung to the air. His insides turned over as wet blood seeped through his tunic, chilling his flesh.

With no time to tend his wounds, he tightened his hold on the sword's hilt and swung forward. Weak from the wound, he lost his grip. The sword hit the ground. Blaise collapsed in a hard thud onto the bloodstained dirt. He was conscious, but could not lift his head to see what was happening.

"God, don't let me die." He imagined his father's face in the dirt. Two bright blue eyes peaked out from bushy flame red hair and a long mustache. Father forgive me. You bade me prevent all of this.

What had he done? He felt like an addle-headed fool. He was supposed to calm the villagers. It was not time to battle with Mercia. Powys would make their move when the time was right. This was the first and probably the last time his father sent him on any mission.

In a groggy state, dazed from the loss of blood, he felt a tug at his neck. Someone turned him over. He tried to open his eyes. Easing his gaze into a narrow squint he caught a blurred image of three Saxons peering down at him.

"This one wears a torque."

"Ah, what have we here?"

"It's Elisedd's son, it is."

"Bring him to King Aethelbald."

They pulled him to his feet but his knees gave way. Blaise gritted his teeth against the bone-jarring pain as he hit the ground. The clumsy attempts at making him stand caused his muscles and head to throb. Finally they dragged him to a horse and flung him upon it like a sack of grain. Each jolt of the trotting steed caused a pain like the burn of fire and ice to cut through his chest.

The Saxon reined the horse to a stop, dismounted, and pulled Blaise off. Gripping him by his shoulders, two Saxons dragged him into the great hall. He swore and cursed all the way but no one seemed to care. They came to a sudden halt before the dais of king Aethelbald.

The balding Mercia king stepped forward and cupped Blaise's chin as he stared at him with large pale blue eyes, his gold brows bunched together. "The great Elisedd sends his youngest son to battle me with naught but a band of villagers?"

It was none of Elisedd's doing. Blaise alone was guilty. "A handful of Powys villagers are a fair match for a hundred well armed Saxons, soft and lazy as you are," he said with affront to hide his shame at being reckless and getting captured.

Aethelbald's eyes flickered with anger for a brief moment. Then he laughed loud and heartily. "You are Elisedd's son." The tall, stiff muscled king turned to his guards. "Take him to the hearth where the other dogs stay. Wrap a chain around the end of his torque and fasten the other end to the wall of the hearth. That will keep the cur in his place." Aethelbald flashed a toothy grin.

As the guards dragged Blaise to the hearth they kicked aside one of the yapping hounds. Even with the arrow still in his chest, Blaise was chained to the gray, soot-covered fireplace.

"God's teeth," he swore. "I should have listened to my Father."

He fixed a hard gaze upon Aethelbald. He had learned as a child in the practice yard of Dinas Bran to show no sign of pain or fear, lest his father would scowl and his older brother taunt him. Blaise would not let it show that his gashed chest throbbed nor his head reeled with grogginess.

The Saxon King neared the hearth. "I want Elisedd of Powys. If you were merely kept hostage in a fashion of hospitality your sire would bide his time." As he hovered about Blaise the stench of his sour ale-breath weakened the Celt's already queasy stomach. "But, when he hears I have chained you like a dog and will not feed you, then he will come," Aethelbald threatened with a baleful glare. "And I will finally be able to fight on my terms, not in the green bogs of the marshland nor that unbreachable castle of Dinas Bran. Here in Mercia I will put an end to Elisedd of Powys."

He choked back a gagging cough. "You are not man enough to kill a Powys king," he challenged in a cold steady tone.

"Father?"

Blaise glanced toward the sweet voice of a maiden. Glistening flaxen hair framed a soft face, sparkling blue eyes, and a small turned-up nose. Aethelbald's daughter.

She glided gracefully to Blaise and laid her hand on his shoulder. "You are wounded."

He stared, unable to speak.

With her hands on her hips she turned to Aethelbald. "Sire, 'tis my duty to tend his wounds. In truth, when I am taken from Mercia there will be no one to tend to the wounded."

"Daughter, do not speak of this now," Aethelbald warned in a sharp demanding tone.

After a dramatic toss of her head, she flashed Aethelbald a seething, tight- lipped expression. "Is he not a prince of Powys?"

"Aye, 'tis Elisedd's youngest get."

"Then I will tend him. Now." She glanced at the prisoner. "What is your name?"

"I am Blaise." His gaze locked on her face: creamy skin, an impish nose, and sparkling eyes.

She turned to her father. "Tis my duty as I am the lady of Mercia and I will do it. If not, the Prince of Powys will die and fetch you nay a coin as a hostage."

The tone in her voice was almost a dare to her sire. Even in his groggy state it was clear to Blaise that she was angry at the king. And whatever it was about, Aethelbald didn't want to speak of it.

The king waved his large, ring-covered hand airily. "Aye Ricole, tend his wounds. But feed him nothing and do not loosen his chains."

"I cannot heal him properly if he is not fed." She rolled her large azure eyes. "'Tis not right, father." She shook her yellow head.

"Daughter, do as I say."

"Well it will not be my fault if he is slow to mend."

He couldn't tear his gaze away from the maiden. Comely she was and she stood up to Aethelbald. Nay, she was a Mercian princess. His enemy. He may have to kill her one day so he could not think of her as a woman. But how could he not? His mouth dropped open.

"I have to pull out the arrow." She turned toward a servant. "Bring ale." Then she looked at Blaise. "Drink to lessen the pain."

"Pull it now," he said for the pain bolstered his courage.

"Nay. You will drink first." Her crisp tone showed she was used to giving commands. She held a goblet brimmed with ale to his lips. "Drink."

She called for another goblet and poured some of the ale on his wound. He gritted his teeth to keep from cringing at the sting.

"I know it hurts." Her tone was tender.

"Nay," he answered curtly. "It does not hurt!"

Now she rolled her eyes and shook her head at him. Then she took a hot poker from the fire and set it against the flames.

Two guards held him down by his arms with his neck still chained to the wall.

She took a deep breath. "Ready?"

He nodded.

She yanked out the arrow stub. He would not yell out, yet he could not stop his eyes from watering from the pain. Ricole then laid the hot poker against the wound to stop the bleeding. The burning scent of his own flesh turned his stomach. He closed his eyes, shutting his gaze from her for the first time.

A servant brought another goblet of golden ale which Blaise drank. Then he handed the empty cup to the princess. He gazed once more into her large blue eyes. That was the last thing he saw before he passed out.

* * *

The next day he awoke to a dog licking his face. He pushed himself up and kicked at the dog. "Be gone!"

But the hounds paced about the hearth. It was their home and now his as well. His stomach felt hollow and he craved food. But Aethelbald had ordered that he not be fed.

"I want water." Cool water for his lips and his face. He turned his head. The hall was empty save for one young guard. "I need a damp cloth and a cup of cool water," Blaise said.

"I am not to leave my post. I am here to guard you."

At that moment, the princess walked in. She nodded to the guard. "Good morn Scan. How fares the hostage?"

"He needs a damp cloth and a cup of water."

Ricole looked at Blaise and smiled. "I will have the servants fetch it."

She went back to the kitchen and returned with a servant holding a rag and a cup. Ricole held two shiny red apples. Blaise looked up at her as she placed the rag on his forehead with a soft feathery touch, her eyes as bright as a full moon. They glistened. He was lost in their depth and could not look away. Ricole put the cup to his lips and bade him drink.

"Sip slowly," she said. When he finished she handed him one of the apples and gave one to Scan.

Blaise bit into the ripe fruit. The gold apples of Avalon could not have tasted better. He devoured the apple, core and all in a blink of the eye.

"I shall bring you more food this eve. Take care not to anger my father and it may go better for you." She turned with poise and gracefully strolled away.

Blaise wiped the juice off his chin with the back of his hand. "Your princess seems kind."

"It is her duty to tend the wounded."

"You think she sees me more as a wounded solider then a hostage."

"Aye. As lady of the manor she has nothing to do with hostages but she is in charge of the wounded."

"She tends well to the wounded then." He paused. "Is she betrothed?" Now why did he ask that?

"King Aethelbald means to use her for an alliance with Cuthred of Wessex. She says she won't marry the brute."

So that was why the princess was mad at her sire. "Cuthred is a barbarian. Why does Aethelbald give his daughter to such a man?"

"The king means to make peace. Aside from Powys, Wessex is our greatest enemy."

"So, he ordered the princess to wed Cuthred. She seems more likely to give orders than to take them."

"She was always bossy, even as a child. She is the king's daughter and the only noble lady at the royal manor. People do what she says and Aethelbald spends little time with her. This is the first and only order he ever gave her," Scan answered.

Blaise smiled. "It sounds like you know her well."

"She is my friend."

Blaise had to bite back his laughter. The princess? His friend? This know- nothing guard was too friendly with the princess and with enemies of the court. The fool would say anything. Blaise could get all the information he needed by just asking. Then he could make his escape when the time was right.

Chapter Two

Blaise rested his head against the soot-covered wall of the hearth. The heavy chain cut into the flesh of his neck. The heat of the flames, weakness from his wound, and the never-ending haze of smoke lulled him into a half sleep state. He dreamed of Dinas Bran. He focused his mind on the image of the hill fort peaked on top a lush green mountain overlooking the verdant valley and the winding Dee River. Home.

He was startled out of the daze by snarling dogs. Two beasts poised for attack, stared each other down, growling fierce warnings.

"Fighting again?" Blaise asked the dogs. The curs continued their brawl without a glance at him. "Huh, I ignored my father's call to peace and look where I am," he said dryly. His mouth tasted of ashes. He coughed.

His eyes latched onto the princess. Her body tensed as she spoke rapidly to her sire, hounding him into the hall. Blaise glanced at the flames and knew that he would come upon a way to use the flames of the fire or the heart of the princess to make his escape. He preferred using the princess.

Ricole lifted her chin. "Father you have had your fun. Now unchain him so he can lie in a proper bed and heal his wounds. You can't treat a prince like this."

"He is a Powys prince. I treat him better than I should. I could simply kill him," Aethelbald said.

With an abrupt turn of her head Ricole tossed her hair across her shoulder and stomped off.

Blaise stared at Aethelbald, but said nothing. He must show no fear, no weakness.

"You eat tonight, prince. I will order my men to throw you and the other dogs the leftover bones. What you can take from the hounds will be yours to gnaw on."

Aethelbald was true to his word. As the king supped, Blaise grabbed at bits of tough meat tossed into the soot-covered hearth. The hounds bit into him, claiming every scrap as their own. Blaise yanked his hand away from the dogs' fangs time and time again. His eyes watered from the stench of their breath. He batted at the hounds trying to chase them away from the scraps. They snarled all the more. He ducked the large joint bones that greasy faced guards threw at him and managed to steal a piece of meat from one of the meeker dogs by pounding the cur with his fist until the animal simpered and gave up the saliva-soaked scrap. With their bellies full the Saxons left the hall and a servant banked the fire.

Blaise lay down on the hard hearth. His flesh stung from the bites of the hounds and his bruised body ached from the bones that were thrown at him. He finally drifted off to sleep. When he awoke the next morning, every pore of his body throbbed with a dull pain.

He felt less than human, useless as the soot that covered him. The princess had not yet come. She was as golden as honey. He lived for the sight of her. Had Aethelbald ordered her from the hall? Would that monster take away the one person that bought him pleasure by her very presence?

He called out to the skinny fool of a hearth guard, "You, Scan. The princess has not come to the hall this day, is she ill?"

Scan walked toward Blaise and leaned down to his ear. "Cuthred has arrived. The princess keeps to her chamber to avoid him, but she will come to sup at the feast this eve."

"Ah, Cuthred is here."

"Aye." The guard nodded his head.

This would be the best time to make his escape, during the commotion of a betrothal feast. But how was he going to get out of that chain? Ricole and Scan were so kind hearted that they would unknowingly aid in Blaise's escape, he just didn't know how, as of yet.

* * *

Ricole entered the hall and rushed to Scan. "My sire and Cuthred are in the council room with the door closed. You must stand guard there, so that you can hear what they say." She would find a way out of this betrothal.

Scan stared at her with a blank expression.

"Go on." She waved him toward the council room.

The guard turned on his heel and in a slow, reluctant stride went to do her bidding.

"My congratulations princess." Blaise grinned wryly.

Gods teeth, not him too! Did everyone know she was to marry Cuthred of Wessex. She turned to face the hostage.

"I understand you are to be betrothed."

"Never," she retorted with a quick jerk of her head.

His laughter burned her ears as she hurried to the long table. She plopped down on the bench, feet flat on the rush-covered floor; her hands gripped the edge of the oaken table. Seething, she tried to ignore the warrior that sat hearthside in a pile of cinders. But she caught herself staring at his mass of red hair, sprinkled with ash. She couldn't take her eyes off the muscles that bulged beneath the soot- covered tunic. She had never been attracted to a man before. It unnerved her on the day she needed her composure the most.

She sensed someone's approach. Scan. He has word, she thought as she gazed with anticipation at the rangy youth. As he bent his lips to her ear she absently twirled a strand of flaxen hair around her finger.

"Your sire called for the scribe."

She banged her small fist on the oaken table. "Christ bones! It cannot be. I shan't be wed to Cuthred the cur."

"Sh, sh," Scan cautioned. "If your sire hears, you will suffer his wrath. He is a bretwalda, one of the greatest kings, a ruler of Britain. M'lady, his word is law."

And am I not his daughter, a princess of Mercia? "My sire needs fathom what my life would be, married to Cuthred of Wessex." If I may but speak to him alone I will have my way. I always get my way.

"Sh, I hear footsteps." Scan scurried to his position at the hearth where he stood at attention. Aethelbald and Cuthred strode into the hall, wearing wide grins across their weatherworn faces. Ricole crossed her arms over her blue woolen tunic dress. Her burning anger rose as she looked at Cuthred, the man who would be her husband. The brute, the boar, and the end of life as she knew it.

She unfolded her arms, grasped her hips, and gazed boldly at Cuthred. "M'lord, I see you are well pleased, no doubt Wessex plots another battle against Mercia for I believe that is your fondest means of frolic," she said.

With a tilt of his thick neck Aethelbald raised his firm set chin. "Daughter, what know you of battles? Hold your tongue for the King of Wessex is my guest this day?"

"Aye, my sire, but so often has he been our foe that I, a mere woman, forgot he was here as our friend...this eve," she said in a sarcastic tone.

Aethelbald's mouth dropped open.

Ricole shut her mouth, but she didn't regret her words. Her father shouldn't have promised her to Cuthred.

"Princess Ricole, your words are true, often I have been your foe, but neither am I here as friend. From this day forth I shall be more to you than friend or foe." Cuthred smirked, flashing a row of yellow stained teeth.

Her skin crawled as if covered by adders.

King Aethelbald raised his muscular arm and declared, "Here ye, here ye, people of Mercia, I declare blessed tidings. King Cuthred-" He paused and patted the Wessex king on the back, "a brave and strong adversary has been granted betrothal to my youngest daughter."

He brought his arm broadside, pointing toward her. She stepped back wanting to be anywhere but there.

He continued, "Thus bringing about an alliance between Wessex and Mercia." He dropped his arm at his side. The timbered hall shook with hurrahs.

Cuthred then held out his fist. She stood her ground but flinched for a moment. Will he hit me, Ricole thought. She knew nothing of men. Everything she had heard about Cuthred involved his temper.

He unfolded his fingers revealing a thick golden ring held in his palm. "M'lady your betrothal gift."

Ricole's hands quivered as she picked up the gaudy ring. It was engraved with a lion, bordered by decorative swirls. Grudgingly, she slipped it around her finger. She wanted to scream, yet could not risk it. She had raised her father's ire by insulting King Cuthred. Determined to charm her father into releasing her from this dreadful fate she schooled her composure to that of a model daughter. Ricole could turn this around. She just needed time.

She strode to her father's side at the long table and eased down into an oaken chair between her sire and Cuthred. Servants set steaming bowls of hare, barley, and tankards of golden ale upon the board.

Ricole cast her eyes downward in feigned meekness. "My king, when shall the marriage take place?"

"A sennight," he firmly replied.

A deep cough spurted from Ricole's lips as she almost choked on a chunk of hare she was chewing. Having managed to swallow the stringy meat she took a swig of ale and mustered her resolve. With every ounce of sweetness and charm, she bobbed her head and said, "Tis good." She needed to make her move as soon as possible.

Ricole kept her gaze upon the bowl, unable to look her sire in the eye, while discussing this curse of a wedding. Holding a spoonful of stew to her lips she blew upon it, while taking comfort in the pleasing scents of sage, bay, garlic, and leeks the hare had simmered in. She flinched at the obnoxious slurping sound of Cuthred devouring his stew. Had he no manners? This was not a battle camp; it was a betrothal feast.

"Sweet Mother Mary!" she exclaimed as she accidentally bit her tongue.

Aethelbald glared at her.

Smile, smile, smile, Ricole thought. She would please her sire so that he would want to please her and release her from this betrothal. But her tight-lipped grin was undone as she glanced at Cuthred's beard sodden with hare broth and bits of barley stuck to his chin. It was the first and last time she would sup with him. Marry him? Never. She glanced imploringly at Scan, her friend, but he was staring off in space. The dunce. He needed to help her come up with a way out of this.

Her gaze fell upon the hostage. She gulped, he stared at her dead on, with a bold smirk. It seemed he laughed at her fate.

Well, he should be afraid, with Wessex and Mercia aligned what chance would Powys have? Aethelbald and Cuthred had both fought the Welsh often enough.

Silly goose, Ricole thought, I need to rid myself of this betrothal. She didn't have time to ponder the hostage, a wild Welshman. But why did he seem so different than the other men there.

Blaise smiled. Heat flickered in her chest but, as she wasn't used to the feeling she flicked her eyes away and stared at the bowl of stew.

Her father banged his fist on the table. The servants scurried to clear the bowls and bring on the betrothal sweets. Serving maids rushed to the hearth where the hostage was chained. He didn't budge, just looked at them as they turned the upside down cauldron aright and lifted a pot from the embers. The aroma of baked apples, honey, and roasted hazelnuts tempted the feasters as plates were filled with generous helpings of apple and hazelnut crumb.

Ricole raked her spoon back and forth across golden-brown crust of crumbs and hazel nuts. Horrid as Cuthred was, she should be able to persuade her father of the error he made in betrothing her to that cur. She would remind him of Cuthred's atrocities in Battle, burned villages and raped Mercian women. While the king of Mercia had honor in battle and strove for peace, Cuthred fought to win at all cost.

She recalled all the bloody, wounded men that she and her sister tended after battle with Wessex. She thought of her sister, Judith, long blonde hair and large, almost round blue eyes. She was closest to Ricole and had taught her to stitch wounds and mix herbs. She would love her sister's company. Poor Judith was in Caledonia, forced to marry the Pict king Brude. Aethelbald gave Judith to a woad painted Pict and Cuthred was little better. She would persuade her Father to dissolve the contract. She must.

Ricole scooped up a spoonful of apple crumb but the sweet treat was almost bitter on her tongue. An inner voice whispered, I fear my charm can't get me out of this dilemma. Cuthred's loud belch knocked her from her musings. Disgusting. She'd have to get away.

"M'lord," she called sweetly to her Father, "I am so excited with the tidings that I have no appetite. I have much to do to prepare for the wedding, be it in a sennight. May I retire to my chamber?" She couldn't stand another moment with the Wessex cur.

Aethelbald waved his hand, dismissing her.

Oh, ignore me now if you like, I will have your ear later, she silently swore before rising. She gave the expansive over tunic and narrow under tunic skirts a brisk shaking. Crumbs fluttered to the floor. After a quick, slight curtsy to King Cuthred, she walked away.

Once in her chamber with the door tightly shut, Ricole plopped down on the bed. She folded her legs beneath her and brushed her fingers across her lips and into her mouth nibbling on the end of her nails. Think Ricole. Think. I always get my way; I just need to find the perfect words to persuade my father to forgo this match. Think, think.

Hours passed and the din of feasting died down. She heard footfalls; the firm steps of King Aethelbald. She stood. "'Tis anon or nevermore." She pulled open the chamber door, made her way to the king's bower, and knocked.

"Enter," he mumbled.

"M'lord I would speak with you, the most honored king in all of England." She flashed her most dazzling smile and walked toward him. "Father, I am saddened by the thought of leaving you. Will you not miss me?"

"Aye." He smiled. "Now that is how a proper daughter should act. I like it when you are like this."

"Do you?" She reeled him in with a coy, downward roll of her blue eyes, stepped to his side, and sat on the bed beside him. "Father, when will we see each other again?"

"You are not yet wed." He chuckled in a low tone. "I said a sennight, remember." He gazed with fondness upon her as if he recalled her mother. "Mayhap longer, a sennight is too brisk for a royal wedding. I should have told Cuthred that."

"Do you think so Father?"

"Aye, indeed a wedding of this magnitude requires at least a moon time to prepare for. I shall tell Cuthred in the morning."

Ricole pulled her arms behind her back and squeezed her balled up hands to contain her excitement. She got the wedding put back for three sennights! She would get it postponed, permanently. The heavy ring weighted down her left hand, but soon she would toss it back at Cuthred. She could take care of this with no trouble at all. She smiled to herself, forgetting her father's presence.

"Do you not want this wedding?" He pierced her with his lucid blue gaze.

Torn from her musings his words caught her off guard.

"It is your duty." Aethelbald's brows drew together.

"Aye, M'lord. I am always willing to do my sire's bidding." She mustered her sweetest smile.

His salt and pepper brows arched suspiciously as his mouth turned down into a scowl. "Since when?" He stood and looked down at her. "You are forever questioning my orders."

"Nay." She stood. "'Tis not true." Ricole moved toward him so they were but a breath span a part. "I do everything asked of me, within reason." With a defiant toss of her head she flung back her long uncovered hair.

Aethelbald's face went bright pink.

Ricole realized her grave error. He would not give in to her now. Heaviness pressed down upon her. She had lost.

"Daughter, you will marry Cuthred to ally Wessex with Mercia. You shall birth many sons so that Cuthred will have an heir as well as princes to fight in his army. Do you hear me?"

With her back against the wall her charm was useless. All Ricole could do was fight.

"Nay! Never shall I marry that brute, that man who waged war against Mercia. I spit upon the king of Wessex." Nay, nay, she thought. She had done it again. She went too far.

"Wed him you will and in a sennight." Aethelbald wagged his finger at her. "Get you to your chamber now! And stay there."

She fled to her bower and fell upon the bed. She swore like a soldier and cried like a princess until her shallow breathing slowed to a steady rate. She wiped her tear-stained eyes, strolled from her chamber, and paced the halls. A burly figure stepped from the shadows of the manor entrance and loomed over her. She gasped as the man pushed her back against the wall.

"Christ bones, 'tis you, Cuthred."

"M'lady I didn't dare hope for such a warm welcome."

"What say you?" she asked warily.

He winked. "Come now. 'Tis no need to be shy. I know you meant to meet me for a tryst."

Her mouth dropped open. She froze. Was he crazed?

He let out a deep chortle. "No need to feign such coyness, M'lady. Why else would you pace the halls in the dead of night, if not to sneak into my chamber?" He grinned.

"Indeed, Lord Cuthred, my reason for being up is to...to..." She turned her head and spotted Scan. "Well, if you must know, I serve my father. He bid me deliver a missive to the hearth guard regarding your accommodations and that of your men. So if you will allow, I need do my duty. I am a most obedient daughter."

"Obedient?" He paused. "Aye, I like obedience in a woman. 'Tis good." He smirked again and eyed her lustily, "Very good."

"Aye, indeed." She squeezed out of his heavy embrace and darted toward Scan as an excuse to get away from Cuthred. She had never been so glad to see Scan. But as she neared him, her heart almost stopped beating. He was not Scan. The cinder boy, the hostage prince, wore a Saxon cloak pinned with a dull broach at the right shoulder, the table-woven braided hem hung knee length over a brown woolen tunic loosely belted below the waist. His Saxon trousers of natural colored wool hung at his ankles rather then draping over his shoes as was the custom. He was too tall for those britches. He wore Scan's clothes. "Oh, nay!"

Standing over her, smiling down, he whispered, "Why are you creeping about in the middle of the night?"

"I could not sleep, if it's any business of yours. Where is Scan? Those are his clothes."

"Scan has a lump on his head but will waken in the morn. He looks very handsome in my black and red checkered braise."

"I want to see him."

"Really? Why? Is he your lover?"

"How dare you. What are you about anyway? Do you mean to harm my father?"

"I have not the time. I am escaping."

A flash of hope sparked in Ricole. "Escaping, really?"

"Aye, the hearth guard is chained to the hearth as I thought it only fitting."

"He will be fine then?"

"Aye."

Now that she had seen about Scan she could turn her attention back to her own needs. "I am also fleeing."

"What are you escaping?" he asked, his brows raised questioningly.

"My sire has ordered me to wed King Cuthred, but I shan't."

"Cuthred is a barbarian. He and his men rape women afore running swords through them. I would kill him myself, if I had the time. But I must flee before I am spotted."

"But you have been."

"What mean you?" His tone was arrogant.

"I, Princess Ricole of Mercia, have spotted you." How dare he not recognize her authority.

"Call the guards." He crossed his arms and stared.

"I thought not for what you would say. I ran into the hostage while I was sneaking out of the palace, refusing to go through with my father's command to marry Cuthred, the only chance my people have for an alliance of peace with Wessex?"

"I can say what I wish, the guards would believe me, not you. I am the princess of-"

"Mercia! I know. I know."

"I can help you escape." She flashed her most beguiling smile. "Take me with you."

"Why should I?" His eyes glinted with a sheen of mischievousness.

"I will aid you in getting a horse. All I ask is that you escort me to Caledonia. My sister Judith is wed to Brude, king of the Picts. I can stay there until my father comes to his senses. Once he sees that he cannot make me wed Cuthred he will let me come back home."

Blaise rested his hand on his belt. "Brude?" His brows arched and his eyes widened. "You want me to take you to the king of the Picts?"

"Aye, do you know him?" She was filled with new found hope.

"I know of him. Apparently, you do not."

She moved closer to Blasie. "Brude will offer me safe haven."

"Oh he will, will he?" He chuckled softly. His smile turned to a thin scowl. "Be cautious, Cuthred is watching us," he said beneath his breath.

"He thinks you are the guard, I need give you an order," she whispered. Then she raised her voice and said, "Scan, make sure that king Cuthred's horses and those of his men are washed down and fed. Then send ale, and if there be willing women to comfort the king's men send them as well."

"Aye, M'lady, it shall be done," answered Blaise.

Cuthred strode back to his chamber, eager to await a willing woman.

"Go and get me a good horse," Blaise whispered in a flat voice.

He followed Ricole to the stable and saddled a sleek, yet muscular gelding. She ducked into another stall.

"Where are you going?" Blaise asked.

"To ready my horse."

"Nay, you ride with me."

"I need get to Caledonia before the king's men find me, it will be faster with two steeds."

"But we take only one."

She cocked her had and placed her hand on her hips. "Why?"

"Because M'lady, I need keep an eye on you." Blaise vaulted into the saddle and held a hand down to hoist her up.

She stared at him long enough to know charm wouldn't work and slid her hand in his. He had agreed to take her to Judith and that was all that mattered -- not if it was on one horse or two. He pulled her up and she straddled the horse's back so that she sat in front of the welsh prince. He smelled of soot and cinders. He stunk.

"You need a bath."

"Aye, 'tis the first thing I will do."

She turned her head toward him. "But first you shall take me to Caledonia."

"Of course. What are hostages for if not to offer their host's daughter an escort." His mouth curled into a smile, but his eyes didn't change. They were unreadable.

It caused her to think that trusting him might not be one of her better ideas. But he was her only means of escape. Surely he would do as she said. All the men in Mercia did as she said -- even Aethelbald. Until now.

"Caledonia is it?"

Blaise's crisp query brought her from her musings.

"Aye, to King Brude." She gazed forward.

At a slow gait he rode past timbre halls, crudely built cattle corrals, and a pigpen full of squealing porkers. Blaise pressed his heels into the horse's flank and rode through the gate as Ricole yelled to two guards leaning on their spears.

"Let me through. Scan and I go on an errand for my sire."

Ricole knew the guards must have thought that she wouldn't leave the palace unless the king had ordered it. "'Tis good they don't know me well," she said under her breath as they opened the gate.

"They were fools not to get a closer look at me. Aethelbald will have them whipped," Blaise mumbled.

"On my account?" She had not thought of that. She realized she had given no though to anything save getting out of the betrothal to Cuthred.

"You didn't make them addle-headed." With a smirk in his voice he added, "Unless they were overcome by your beauty."

"You are rude to speak to me like that." Her muscles stiffened.

But the heat of his rasp chuckle made the flesh on Ricole's neck tingle. She could melt in his arms if she let herself. She pushed those silly fancies aside. Soon she would be with Judith and she wouldn't have to give another thought to Cuthred or Blaise.

"I wish to hasten to Caledonia." Her voice was less steady than she wished.

She gasped for breath as Blaise kneed the horse in a gallop.

* * *

When dawn broke, it seemed to Ricole like they had ridden for hours. Her rump was sore and her muscles ached.

She looked at the direction of the sun. This did not seem right. "Blaise, is this north?"

Chapter Three

"Aye north to Caledonia," he answered.

Was he right? She glanced back and forth at land and sky. Are you sure we are heading north?"

"Aye," he said firmly.

She shrugged, "I am not good at directions." She was feeling more and more tired as the long ride took its toll. She nodded off.

He held the horse to a steady trot. The sleeping princess' flaxen head pressed against his chest. A sniff of lavender from her feathery mane tempted his senses. Comely, moreover she rides well...for a Saxon, he thought as he followed the curves of the Magonsaete River. Its ripples glistened like a hoard of druid crystals. He crossed into the ancient kingdom of Powys and headed for Dinas Bran.

Elation bubbled within his chest at anticipation of reaching the hill fort. His father and king, Elisedd ap Gwylog of Powys would honor him. The shame he had brought to his sire when he was taken hostage would be transformed into great pride, for he returned with Aethelbald's daughter as his hostage.

His flesh tingled from the warmth of her body as she lay against him. Heat swirled in his chest. So sweet when she slept and her mouth was shut. Nay, she was a hostage; he could feel no fondness for her, though his father would treat her well, unlike the way he was treated in Mercia.

Gazing at the long grass and scattered rock, sloping hills and azure sky he drunk in the breathtaking beauty of Powys. It was good to be home, yet his gaze drifted to the princess' fair face and hair which shimmered like sunlight on the river. He recalled her dimpled smile. The horse's hooves clumped upon bright green grass as the purr of a waterfall urged him onward. Soon his eyes fell upon crystal water, cascading down jutting mountain rock. The Princess said he needed a bath.

He pulled the steed to a halt. With one hand steadily on Ricole, he eased from the saddle. As he gently lifted her into his arms she wriggled and mumbled something.

"Shish, princess, go back to sleep."

Leaving the horse to graze, Blaise laid Ricole under the leafy canopy of an ancient, gnarled and crooked oak. He was free at last. As free as the gushing fountains, wandering brooks, murmuring rivers, and lakes pouring forth fresh water. Blaze ran, pounding his feet into the sod of Wales. He unfastened the thin Saxon belt and flung it in the grass. The Saxon tunic now hung to his calves. He pulled it off, removed the tight fitting trousers, and ran naked into the cool clear pond, where water tumbled down the rocks. He dived underwater and came head up at the falls. Water pounded his flesh, invigorating, cleansing. The roar of the waterfall rejuvenated his soul. He ran his fingers through his matted hair, kneading his scalp as the water poured down. He washed the English soil from his flesh.

A shrill scream pierced the air. He turned seeing Ricole, eyes wide and face red. A chuckle rumbled from deep in his chest. She had seen something she couldn't talk about. She was a maid indeed. Ricole covered her eyes, turned her head, and ran back toward the grazing horse.

"Ricole," he called between snorts of laughter.

"You are bare, every bit of you," she exclaimed.

"Join me," he gibed.

His eyes slid to her back. Yellow curls cascaded past her waist. His eyes skimmed the gentle curves of her willow waist and ample hips as he wondered what she looked like nude.

"Ricole, come; the water is not cold," he taunted in a hoarse voice.

"Put your clothes on, you cur," she yelled without turning around. Even though she was shocked and angry the set of her shoulders was regal and exuded confidence.

"Ah, there is the princess I know. For a moment I feared you had gone speechless. Oh, I meant for a moment I was blessed to have you go speechless."

"Are you dressed, you big dolt?"

Still staring at her, Blaise took a deep gulp of heather scented air. He shook his head, spraying droplets of water on the green grass. Blaise pulled on the Saxon trousers, then the tunic. He belted it to a decent length, picked his shoes up in one hand, and waded through the long grass toward the embarrassed princess.

When he loomed a breath span from her, he teased in a low voice. "M'lady I am at your service."

Startled, she shrieked and wheeled around.

He chuckled. "M'lady did I startle you?"

"You dolt!" she yelled and stepped back.

He took pleasure in the baffled expression which played across her face.

"You shouldn't go about naked in the presence of a lady."

"Aye, of course you are right."

He was overcome with a sudden urge to see her smile. Not a good idea, he chided himself, while he gazed into her large, blue eyes.

She gestured to him to sit in the grass, then joined him there. After a long pause, Ricole said, "Your hair is matted. I can comb it for you."

"Nay." He didn't want her fingers caressing his scalp. He had to get this silly Saxon lass to Dinas Bran before she figured out what he was up to, and tried to escape. He stood and glanced toward the crooked tree. "I will gather elderberries yonder so you can eat. Then we ride. Either Aethelbald or Cuthred follow our trail."

She cocked her head. "We are in Caledonia?"

"Aye, Princess. We rode north, remember? Where else could we be? Rest. I will return with this Saxon hat full of elderberries." They were already in Powys, yet she thought they were in Caledonia. Silly goose of a princess. He pulled the funny woolen cap from his head and walked off into the high grass. Blaise slowly inhaled air sweet with gale and flowering heather, while he plucked berries from the vine.

An eagle flew overhead, emitting a lucid, strong caw which sounded like, "Home, home." Was it the eagle which returned each year to nest in the wooden palisades atop Dinas Bran?

"Fly on," he called out to the eagle. "Soon, I shall soar up the steep rock to the ancient, iron hill fort on top the high mountain, amidst the clouds."

Blaise made his way back to the princess. Even dirty and ruffled she was a stunning beauty. "Here, eat."

She scooped her fingers into the Saxon cap full of dark berries and shoved a handful into her mouth. She chewed fast, almost choking. Juice dribbled down her lips and her palms were splashed with indigo from the berry juice.

"Slow down. There are more elderberries, princess."

"I am starving. I did not eat well last night. I had no wont of food while I sat next to Cuthred."

Her every word made him laugh. She didn't trust the king of Wessex, yet she trusted a Welsh hostage to take her to Caledonia. She had much to learn. Life in Mercia had been too easy for her. The glow of her skin and the sheen of her hair held his stare. His palm burned with the urge to touch her. The sooner he put her into his father's care the better off he would be. He needed to ride.

"'Tis time we were off. We have a long way to go." He helped her mount the horse and vaulted up behind her.

They rode pillion through Wales from the moors to the foothills.

Her hair smelled of fresh heather. Bits of grass and twigs hung in her golden mane. He felt like he was galloping across the moors with the horse goddess, Epona. Absently, he reached down pulling twigs from her hair, then ran his fingers through her silky strands.

She sat still for a moment, then asked, "Why did you not want me to comb your hair?"

"I comb my own hair."

"I like the hue of your hair. 'Tis different."

He blinked his eyes trying to toss off the desire she sparked in him. "Tis why they call me Blaise." His voice was raspy, muted with lust.

"Did your mother name you?"

"Nay, she died in child bed. My father named me by the hue of my hair. The lime wash lightens it to a reddish blonde, but it is naturally flame red."

"Lime wash?"

"Aye, it makes it thick as a hedgehogs hide."

She laughed.

He liked that.

Then her voice took on a tinge of sadness. "I am sorry your mother died. Mine did as well when I was two."

"This I did not know." The sister she spoke of must be the only family she really had. The gods know Aethelbald thinks of her as nothing but a daughter, to be used for an alliance. "Tell me about Judith."

"She is my favorite sister. I have not seen her since she was taken to Caledonia."

"Aye, Brude does not ride into Saxon territory save for battle."

"Of course, he has to climb over Hadrian's Wall to get into Britain." Ricole's voice lowered to a dreamy tone. "I hear tell he is a great warrior and very handsome."

"In her marriage to Brude, your sister is more hostage than wife. She ensures him Aethelbald will not bring an army against Pictland." He glanced down, intrigued by her pouty expression. No matter what mood she was in, she was adorable.

"Why do you speak so of Brude and Judith?"

"Princess, I just wanted to show you there are other ways to look at things. All is not as it appears. You may be more innocent of the ways of the world than you think." He wanted to shout, don't you know I am betraying you. We are not in Caledonia. He knew she would hate him when she discovered she was his hostage. Shocked, he realized how her hatred would wound him. She leaned against his chest and he drove his horse into a hard gallop across the moors. The sun hung low.

He guided his horse up the first steep mountain he came to. A lass was herding her cows to the valley from grazing in high pasture. She was straight of posture with long red hair and a fresh honest face. Absently, Blaise greeted her in Welsh.

Likewise she replied in Cymraeg, "May the wind be quiet and the sun shine this morn."

"Augh!" Blaise groaned at the pain in his chest. The Saxon had jabbed her elbow in his stomach. He held on to her tightly. Though she fought hard, she was no match for his muscle.

"She speaks Welsh, not Pict." She dove at him.

"Augh!" How did she manage to bite my arm? "Bran's head!" The lass had spark for a Saxon. "Ricole, Ricole, calm down. I have you. You can't escape. Stay still or you may harm yourself in the struggle."

She wiggled against him like a bucking horse. How could a twig of a girl be so strong? She must have some Welsh blood in her.

He spoke louder. "Ricole, if you got away from me, where would you go? You are in Wales."

"Liar! You said we were in Caledonia."

New pains shot through his legs and stomach as she continued the thrashing assault. "Ricole, I did lie for I said we went north. But, we rode westward across marshland, then moors, and now we ride up a mountain. I am a Powys prince, where would I go but Wales?"

The Saxon horse, frightened by the fray, reared on its hind legs and emitted a fierce neigh. Ricole screamed. Blaise held her tight while he took control of the horse. He wished he were in the saddle of a Celtic pony. Little spooked them and they would turn and fight before running away. The steed bolted at a fast gate up the hill, bits of rock and rubble tumbling down. He wrapped his left arm about the princess and held her tight.

Suddenly he heard a woman's voice, whispering melodic Welsh, soothing the horse, who came to a halt. The grazer maid had a way with animals like all Powys folk. The bucking slowed, and then the neighing and snorting halted. The horse was calm. Relieved but still alert, Blaise held the Princess fast. Then he turned to the redheaded maid and thanked her.

She bowed. "Prince Blaise."

He gestured for her to rise. "I was riding up the mountain to look out for English soldiers. Were you on the peak? Did you spot an army headed this way?"

"Aye, well, a small army." The maid shrugged.

"I need see for myself," he said, then thanked the grazer lass and clutched Ricole tighter. "Come Princess, we need see what your sire is up to."

He clucked the horse into a slow gait up the mountain, it tossed its large head and let loose a loud whinny. Blaise pulled the steed to a halt, eased from the saddle, and gently lifted the right hoof.

"Bran's head, all the sliding about on the mountain bruised the horse's hoof."

He took a leather thong from the saddle and tied Ricole's hands to ensure she could not make an easy escape. He pulled her from the saddle, grasped her forearm and tugged her along as he climbed the steep mountain path to the peak. She cursed him all the way in her guttural Saxon tongue like a common hearth guard.

He looked down and spied a small force of Saxons riding through the marshlands, into the moors. "''Tis no army but a war band, no more then fifty men. They seek to find me before I get to Dinas Bran."

"To take you hostage again?" she asked curtly.

"Nay princess, to kill me, and take you to Cuthred." He pointed to the other side of the valley, to the threatening battlement of Dinas Bran built on a towering, cloud crested mountain. "There princess is your new home, while you await your sire's ransom."

"You cur!" She spat.

"You yell a lot. I recall your father said you kept close to the hearth guards. I deem he was right."

"I am a princess of royal blood and you shall speak to me as such."

"Then stop spitting, princess." He stressed the last word in a mocking tone.

"Let me go," she yelled.

"Nay, princess." He yanked her back down to where the now calm horse stood. He pulled her forearm with one hand and the horse's reins with the other as they walked down the mountain.

"If I can see the Saxon war band, so can the forces at Dinas Bran. For certes, my father has formed a war band to see what they are about," he said in a confident tone. I need get to my father's forces before Aethelbald's catch me.

"My sire's army shall take siege on Dinas Bran," she huffed in retort.

He couldn't stop laughing. "Nay princes. No force can lay siege to Dinas Bran. A war band of fifty men would all lay dead within a moment's time if they tried to siege the fortress. They intend to catch me before I get to Dinas Bran."

Blaise had counted on his skill in riding over the hills and valleys of Wales to give him an advantage, but the horse's hoof was badly bruised. At least with her hands still tied, Ricole couldn't slow his escape any further. He scanned the clusters of huts and stalls which made up the quaint village in the valley below. Blaise knew if the pursuing war band caught up to him, he was a dead man. Having made his way down to the foot of the mountain, he let out an audible sigh. Then with Ricole in tow he headed to the center of the small village.

In a loud bard-like voice he called out, "People of Powys, I, Blaise ap Elisedd, have escaped the Saxons. But my steed's hoof was bruised, and a war band approaches. I know you wish to battle the Saxons, for the people of Powys are strong and brave, yet it would take a toll on your village." No more needless battles like the last one I caused, he thought. "Instead, I ask you to hide me and the woman, so the war band will swiftly return to Mercia where they belong."

"Hither," called out a rangy man of average height, his skin brown from the sun, but cheeks still rosy, even though he was near the age of Blaise's own father.

A woman with a long oval face and dark hair stood at his side and two knee high, white haired lasses held her hands. Blaise tugged the horse forward.

"No one is going to hide me from my father's men." Ricole tilted her chin defiantly.

"Watch me Princess."

Blaise noticed the wagon full of flowers from which the family had filled large wicker baskets of woad, madder, weld, and marjoram, to make dye.

The man winked at Blaise. "There is no more fitting place for a Powys prince then beneath the woad." He pointed to the wagon. "Get in."

Swiftly, the family cleared the wagon and Blaise climbed inside pulling Ricole with him. He lay at her side with his hand firmly covering her mouth. He couldn't help but smile as a ton of woad flowers were tossed over him and the princess. His nose tickled, but he steeled himself and gripped Ricole firmly, ensuring her silence.

It seemed he lay there forever, but never was he afraid the ruse wouldn't work for the woad protected him. It was the ancient flower by which druids of old brewed war paint to render the Cymry invincible. Blaise knew no Saxon could ferret him amid the magic of woad.

Muscles stiff, he strained to stay still with his arm wrapped tightly about Ricole, his hand firmly clamped over her mouth. Lying deep under the soft cover of woad flowers, Blaise waited.

A thunderous sound of horses hooves, snorts, neighs, and the brutish shouts of threats, meant the war band had arrived. He knew by the banging and thrashing sounds, the Saxons ransacked the huts and stalls. He would make sure his sire replaced any loss of property his people faced this day.

It was hard to keep his muscles taught with Ricole's warm body crushed against him. He knew one flinch or squirm would cost him his life. He heard foot falls approach the wagon.

"What is this?" someone sneered in the gruff Saxon tongue.

Then a hand pushed deep into the flowery haven. Ricole's heart hammered loudly. The long, reaching fingers startled her. Blaise's heart pounded harder than the princess'. The looming hand flicked upwards, shuffling the top layer of flowers. Blaise prayed they were still concealed. He heard the rough voice of a soldier.

"Look at this dye merchant, he can barely hold up against the wind, so scrawny he is. Yet instead of growing food to fatten him up, he plants flowers. Daft Welshman."

Chuckles and sneers ensued from the guards.

Another voice queried, "What now?"

"Augh! We are in the heart of Powys, too close to Dinas Bran for our own good. We need turn back and report to King Aethelbald. to tell him the Welshman didn't come this way."

Blaise silently gave thanks to the Gods. It seemed forever, until he heard the pounding hooves of the war band's horses riding out of the village. He waited quietly, still clutching Ricole and covering her mouth. Enclosed in the cover of flowers he had no way to see when all the Saxons had left the village. He knew it was only safe once the dye merchant came for him.

A shuffling of flowers and soft hands pushed the woad blossoms aside. He sat up and released Ricole, for her hands were securely tied.

He gazed at the merchant, grateful. "Your service done to me this day shall not go forgotten."

"I am your man, prince Blaise. My family and I are proud to serve Powys."

Blaise stood up and brushed off yellow woad flowers which still clung to him.

Ricole spat. "My father shall come again. He will take me back to Mercia but only after he has killed you."

"I thought you wanted to leave Mercia," he said in a feigned tone of disappointment.

"To go to Judith, not to Powys, you fool!"

"Princess, the king didn't come nor did he send his army. The war band of peasant soldiers returns to Mercia with no tidings of your whereabouts."

"Nay, I don't believe it."

"Believe what you wish." He turned to the newly formed crowd. "My thanks. King Elisedd will reward you well."

One of the older men spoke up. "It would be reward enough if he kept the English out of Powys."

A dark-haired man at his side, with a deep scar upon his face asked, "Who be this woman?"

Blaise opened his mouth to speak but before he could utter a safe explanation, Ricole boldly stated, "I am the princess of Mercia, daughter of Aethelbald."

The scarred man turned a hard gaze upon Blaise. "Give us this daughter of Mercia as our reward. Our wives and daughters have been raped by Saxons. Sons and fathers have died battling Aethelbald's forces. Grant us this chance to take our revenge upon his daughter."

Blaise grabbed the princess and pulled her behind him. "The princess of Mercia is my hostage." He pierced the man with a cold, daring stare.

A voice rung out, "We want the Princess."

Blaise kept to a bold, brave composure, but his inner resolve faltered for he had no weapon. The crowd moved closer, surrounding Blaise and Ricole.

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